Blood Ties
by Alice Day
Summary: When an obnoxious organizer drops dead at a science fiction convention, the CSIs find themselves faced with an unusual array of suspects and a genetic mystery. Jim/Catherine, and the second in a series.
1. Chapter 1

Entry #2 in the "A Year in the Life" series. When an obnoxious organizer drops dead at a science fiction convention, the CSIs find themselves faced with an unusual array of suspects and a genetic mystery. On the home front, Lindsey is on a weekend field trip, and Brass and Catherine take advantage of their unexpected freedom. You know the drill -- CSI belongs to Anthony Zuiker and CBS, and what I do with the gang isn't canon.

* * *

Blood Ties  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

_The man in the undersized Battlestar Galactica t-shirt studied the rows of used books neatly lined up on the folding table. He picked up one wrapped in a plastic baggie, and his eyes narrowed with desire. "Pratchett -- sweet. How much?" he asked._

_The dealer pursed his lips. "That's a first edition from Gollancz, my friend. Couldn't take less than $90."_

_"$60."_

_"$90."_

_"Oh, come on, dude," the man whined. "I mean, it's not like he's Neil Gaiman or anything."_

_The dealer gave him a look that clearly said __**You asshole**__. "That's a first British edition of MORT, in fine condition," he said out loud. "I sell that to you for $60, I'm cutting my own throat. If you can't afford it, I've got a Gollancz paperback edition in the bookcase at the end of the table."_

_"Crap. Okay." The man hauled out a well-worn wallet and pried five twenties from its sweaty recesses. Someone bumped into him from behind and he lurched, dropping the cash on the table._

_Annoyed, he turned around. "Hey, dude, watch it--"_

_At first, he assumed the guy was in a hall costume -- grey waxy skin, bloodshot eyes, shadowed bags under them. Not the best zombie makeup he'd seen at the con, but it was just Friday night -- the good costumes wouldn't come out until tomorrow night at the masquerade._

_It wasn't until the guy fell to the floor and didn't move again that he realized it wasn't makeup._

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI**

Dr. Ray Langston looked at the corpse, then at the crowd of SF fans hovering at the entrance to the dealer's room, and finally at Captain James Brass. With a straight face, the former pathologist said, "He's dead, Jim."

Brass gave him a long-suffering look. "You've been waiting to use that line since we got the 419, haven't you?"

Ray's mouth quirked. "I'm sorry. I was something of a Trekkie back in college."

"Yeah, well, you must be in your element right now," the Homicide captain said, gazing sourly around the room. "This looks like geek heaven."

The large hotel conference room was full of folding tables arranged in a rough U shape, with two tables in the middle running parallel to the arms of the U. Some tables, such as the one next to their DB, were loaded down with a variety of science fiction and fantasy novels and magazines. Other tables offered roleplaying dice, jewelry, tie-on animal ears, DVDs, corsets, and somewhat scary-looking anime dolls. A table against the far wall featured the sign "Lazy Dragon Armory" and boasted an impressive collection of swords, knives and other bladed weapons.

Brass nodded at the armory table. "Please tell me we don't have to go through all that."

Nick Stokes walked up, evidence case in hand. "God, I hope not. It would be a stone bitch to luminol that much hardware," he said.

The assistant coroner glanced up and peered at the table. "Oooh, katanas -- cool." He realized the CSIs and Brass were now staring at him, and ducked his head. "Uh, no obvious wounds on the body and no blood pools, so I'm assuming he wasn't stabbed or shot," he said quickly. "Could be a heart attack."

Ray knelt next to David, studying the DB's pallor. "It does look like some sort of cardiac incident. Seems awfully young for a heart attack, though."

David fished a wallet out of the corpse's pants. "Andy Watkins, age 28. Local."

"Yeah, and the guy doing the pee-pee dance over there at the door is Michael Szilow," Brass said, reading from his notebook. The four of them looked over at a short, husky man wearing quasi-cowboy gear and a long brown coat. With his hands shoved deep in the coat's pockets, he kept flapping the coat back and forth like a large, ungainly bat. "Apparently Mr. Watkins was in charge of this shindig, officially known as VivaConVegas, and Mr. Szilow is his second-in-command. Szilow said that Watkins slipped out of con ops, whatever the hell that is, about a half hour ago to 'take a break.' Next thing he knows, some guy in here is screaming like a little girl and Szilow's glorious leader is dead on the floor."

Ray gently pulled up the corpse's right sleeve, peering underneath. "David," he murmured. "Remember what you said about no blood loss?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to rethink that statement."

He rolled the sleeve up, exposing the DB's inner elbow. A small adhesive bandage held a piece of gauze on the skin.

Ray looked up at Brass. "We might need that luminol, after all."

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI**

"I already told you what happened," Michael Szilow said, hunching his shoulders. "Once I heard the screaming from the dealer's room, I ran over there and found Andy on the floor."

"Yeah, so you said," Brass replied, leaning back in the conference chair. While Nick was photographing the body and processing evidence, the Homicide captain and Langston had escorted Szilow back to the small meeting room the convention used as its base of operations. "It just seems a little weird that a 28-year-old guy would drop dead like that, you know?"

"I guess," Szilow said, looking green. "That was the first time I ever saw a real dead body. They look different from the ones on TV."

Brass smirked. "Yeah -- the TV ones tend to breathe at the wrong time."

Ray pursed his lips to mask a smile. "Did Andy have any sort of medical issues -- heart problems, high blood pressure, diabetes?" he asked.

The other man shrugged. "I dunno. Although from the way the sonofabitch screamed at everyone, I guess he could've stroked out or something."

Brass's eyebrows went up. "Oh?"

This time, Szilow went pale. "Look, Andy was an asshole, ask anyone," he stammered. "He ran VivaConVegas like it was his own personal fiefdom -- he'd hand out the cool jobs to people who sucked up to him, and stick everyone else with the crap stuff. We've already gone through three different programming heads this year because he kept rearranging schedules to 'keep things hopping.'"

#

_"What the hell are you doing? You can't put the Twilight panel opposite the masquerade!" Andy yelled at a plump woman with short brown hair and glasses. "Stick it in the B room on Friday at 5."_

_"I can't," she protested, waving a spreadsheet heavily marked in red ink. "Pat Elrod and Rachel Caine won't be here until 7:00 PM on Friday, and the slot opposite the masquerade is the only time I can get the rest of the vampire authors in one place at the same time."_

_Andy snorted. "Screw them -- they'll stick to our schedule and they'll like it, or they can walk. Most of them are locals anyway -- they should be grateful I'm not making them buy a membership to be here."_

_The programming head gave him a filthy look as he stalked off. "I hope Pat cuts out your liver and serves it with fava beans and a nice Chianti," she muttered._

_"I heard that!"_

#

"Sounds like a difficult guy to work with," Brass said.

"He was a dick," Szilow said. "But he had tons of publishing contacts, plus he pumped a lot of his own cash into the con, so we had to suck it up and keep him around. You have no idea how expensive it is to run a con these days -- you can't just rent some meeting rooms, throw together a couple of panels and put out sandwiches in the con suite anymore. You've got to pay for the GOH's airfare, room and board, then you have an Anime room, plus a kids' track, and if you're holding a masquerade you've got to pay the hotel to use their sound system. God forbid you get a media guest -- that's a couple of grand right there. And don't get me started on corkage fees."

"My heart bleeds," Brass said dryly. "So you're saying Andy wasn't about to win VivaConVegas's Mr. Congeniality award."

Szilow gave him a resigned look. "You don't know local fandom very well, do you? Look, even Andy's own sister can't stand him, and he's the only family she has left," He bit his lip. "Had left. Their parents died a couple of years ago in a car accident. Andy got everything in the will -- I guess they figured he'd split it with Agatha, but he never did. That's how he funds the con. And believe me, Agatha was seriously pissed about that."

"Really? I don't suppose she was at the con today?"

"Agatha?" Szilow snorted. "Not gorram likely. We're too geeky for her tastes these days."

Brass's brow furrowed. "'Gorram'?"

Ray had a sudden vision of Szilow describing the television show FIREFLY to the Homicide captain, and winced. "I'll explain it later," he murmured to Brass. "Mr. Szilow, are there any other places where Mr. Watkins might have gone between leaving here and showing up in the dealer's room?"

The concom member frowned. "He said he needed a pick-me-up -- I figured he was going to the Green Room to get something to eat."

"Not the Con suite?"

Brass flicked a glance at the CSI that said _Okay, buddy boy -- later on you WILL tell me how you know all this stuff._

Szilow shook his head. "Andy wouldn't be seen dead in the Con suite -- he called it the cattle pen. Besides, he liked hanging out with the guests."

"So, where would we find the Green Room?"

"Over by main programming. Just, please, don't scare any of the guests, okay?"

Brass rolled his eyes. "He's worried about _us_ scaring _them_?"

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI**

Nick strolled past a Wookie and a slightly over-the-hill Princess Leia holding hands. _Archie should be here -- he'd seriously love this._ David and the DB were on their way to Doc Robbins, Brass and Ray were off talking to that weird guy in the long brown coat, and things seemed to be getting back to business in the dealer's room.

There'd been no evidence of foul play on the body, apart from the fact that it was a body and had a fresh needle mark in its arm. He'd dusted the bandage surface for prints, but nothing came up. Surface lifts of the man's shirt and pants turned out to be equally clean. Whatever happened to the vic, it had to be connected to the injection mark on his arm.

A nearby women's room door opened and two teenage girls, dressed in strategically positioned strips of white vinyl, gogo boots, and white furred cat ears dashed out. "Omigod, I can't believe they're showing Bleach -- that's, like, my favorite anime," one of them squealed, almost bumping into Nick. Two sets of huge teenage eyes turned up to him, and pooled with admiration.

"Oooh!" one girl cooed. "You're _kawaii_!"

Nick blinked. "Uh, thank you?" he said.

"And _genki __naisu bodi_!" the other girl squealed. "Are you here for the con?"

"Ooh, I like your costume!" the first one said. "Are you cosplaying?"

He wasn't quite sure what language they were speaking -- it _sounded_ like English. "I'm here on police business, ladies," he said with a polite smile. "So if you'll excuse me--"

Two more catgirls bounced out of the bathroom, spotted their friends flanking Nick, and pounced. "Oooh, _moshi mosh__i!_" they caroled, linking arms around him.

"Isn't he _kawaii_?"

_"Domo kawaii!"_

The Texan stared at his pubescent captors. "Uh--"

"Wait -- can we get a picture with you?" the first catgirl pleaded.

_"Onegai?"_

_"Onegai onegai onegai?"_

_Okay, I know they were speaking English before._ "I'm sorry?"

"Please?" they chorused.

Nick closed his eyes and sighed. Sometimes, the easiest way out was straight on through. "Yeah, sure, why not."

"Yay!"

A passerby in a Rock-Scissors-Paper-Lizard-Spock t-shirt was snagged, a digital camera produced and its functions explained. The giggly teenagers gathered around Nick, two on each side. He smiled and tried to look kawaii, whatever that was.

"On three!" the catgirl leader said. "One, two, three!"

On cue, two girls grabbed a pec each, and the other two dropped to their knees and clutched his thighs, a little too close to the Stokes family jewels for comfort. Nick let out a strangled _urk_ as the fan snapped the picture.

_"Domo arigato __gozaimasu__!"_ the leader squealed, retrieving the camera and jumping up to kiss him on the cheek, before scampering away with her fellow felines. A bit breathless, Nick turned to see Szilow, Brass and Ray watching him.

He could feel his ears burn. "I can explain."

Brass held up a hand. "I just want a copy. For the lab."

"Man, don't even go there," Nick muttered, imagining Catherine's reaction to the catgirls. Or Archie's. Or, even worse, Greg's. "The vic's en route to the morgue -- I got a whole lot of nothing for evidence. What do y'all have?"

"We're retracing Watkin's path from con ops to the dealer's room," Ray explained as the group continued through the hotel, passing a series of meeting rooms and one large ballroom where it looked like some sort of SF-themed bellydancing rehearsal was going on. Nick stalled a bit, enjoying the view before Ray cleared his throat and nodded meaningfully at the other men.

Grinning, the Texan followed. "Sci-fi geeks have seriously changed since I was in high school," he murmured to the other CSI. "I remember this one kid in my class who was into Star Wars -- he couldn't have gotten a date if he paid for it."

"Fandom's grown up," Ray said. "It's not just for nerds anymore."

Just past the ballroom, Szilow stopped in front of a nondescript door. "This is the Green Room," he said. "Bev's usually on duty, so--"

A crackling noise came from his pocket, and he fumbled out a two-way radio. "Mike, you there?" the CSIs heard.

Glancing nervously at Brass, Szilow pressed the TALK button. "Not a good time, Lee."

"Screw that. Our illustrious GOH apparently finished the bottle of scotch in his room and is wandering around the lobby hitting on anything with a hole and a pulse," the crackly voice said. "If we don't pull him in, someone's gonna call the cops."

Szilow groaned. "_Dong ma. _I'm on my way." He turned pleading eyes on the CSIs. "Look, I've got to stop our guest of honor from getting arrested -- can I go?"

"Go," Brass sighed. The husky man turned and ran off, coat flapping in his wake. "Doc, you seem to be the local expert -- wanna do the honors?"

Ray nodded and opened the Green Room door. A plump older blonde woman in a purple salwar kameez looked up as they came in. "I'm sorry -- this area is for guests only," she said pleasantly.

Brass tapped his badge. "I'm a VIP, and this is my entourage. Are you Bev Helman?"

"Yes. Oh, dear_._" She touched her fingers to her mouth. "Is this about Andy?"

"I'm afraid so," Ray said. "Did he come in here earlier for something to eat or drink?"

The woman frowned. "Well, he came in, but I think it was more for privacy than anything else."

"Privacy?"

"Yes. He had Agatha -- his sister -- with him. They were arguing about money again."

"Oh, really?" Brass said. "We were told she didn't like coming to this sort of thing."

"Well, not anymore, after her weight loss surgery," Bev sniffed. "Now she thinks she's too good for fandom. Anyway, she followed Andy in, and they started yelling at each other. There weren't any guests here at the time, so I took off." She shook her head. "I've heard those two screeching at each other about their parents' estate for the last two years -- I didn't need to hear it again."

"Uh-huh." The Homicide captain pulled out his cell phone and punched a button. "Yeah, this is Brass," he said after a moment. "Look up the address of an Agatha Watkins, then send a couple of uniforms over there to pick her up. We need to have a chat about her dear departed brother."


	2. Chapter 2

Entry #2 in the "A Year in the Life" series. When an obnoxious organizer drops dead at a science fiction convention, the CSIs find themselves faced with an unusual array of suspects and a genetic mystery. On the home front, Lindsey is on a weekend field trip, and Brass and Catherine take advantage of their unexpected freedom. You know the drill -- CSI belongs to Anthony Zuiker and CBS, and what I do with the gang isn't canon.

* * *

Blood Ties  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

"Well, that's not something you see every day," Catherine Willows said, peering through her viewfinder.

She snapped a shot of the dead man curled up in the metal transport trunk. The DB wasn't unusual, nor was the container -- the shredded comic books packed around the body like human-sized hamster bedding, however, were a career first.

"Oh, man. I could cry, I really could," Greg Sanders said mournfully.

Catherine lowered her camera, surprised at the younger CSI's unusual show of sympathy. Then the dime dropped. "Let me guess -- you read comics," she said.

"Hell yeah," Greg said. "Who knows what four-color gem of yesteryear could be lost forever in there?"

She glanced around the shelves of Cosmic Comics, loaded with comics, graphic novels, action figures and other pop culture paraphernalia. "Just do me a favor -- no shopping while you're here."

He banged his fist on an imaginary breastplate. "Yes, my liege."

Off near the cash register, Detective Vega was talking to the store manager, a tall man who looked like the result of a one night stand between an otter and a human being. "I opened up the case, and there he was," the manager said in a nasal tone. "What I want to know is when you're going to get him _out_ of there."

Vega pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Sir, that box is now a crime scene," he said, "and we can't move anything until the coroner clears it--"

"Clears it?" the manager yelped. "Do you realize that a dead body might be leaking God knows what on my only copy of **Amazing Spiderman #583**?"

"And that's important why?"

The manager looked horrified. "It has President _Obama_ on the cover," he said in a hushed tone.

Vega fought the impulse to roll his eyes. "Nice to know you're a patriot, sir."

The glass door banged open, and SuperDave and his assistant came through with the stretcher. "Sorry -- busy night," he explained.

"Not a problem," Catherine said. "We need a liver temp when you get a chance."

"On the way." The assistant coroner opened his kit and pulled out the stake-like temperature sensor. Moving the corpse's shirt up, he pushed the sharp end into the liver with a soft pop/squish and waited for the readout to flash. "90 degrees. It's been in the 60's all day, but he's probably been insulated by the shredded paper, so the best I can give you is a TOD sometime between three and nine hours ago. Lividity is fixed and settled on the bottom side of the body."

"So he probably died in the box," Catherine said. "Any ID?"

Dave reached into the man's jeans and pried out a battered plastic wallet. "Driver's license says his name is Vernon Fuller."

The store manager's head snapped around. "That's Fuller?" he asked, coming over to the box and staring into it. "My God -- he looks so different dead."

Vega followed the manager. "You know him?"

"Of course. He used to work here."

The manager continued to gawk at his former employee. "Used to," the detective prompted.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, until he took off one too many times and I fired him," the manager said absently. "But that was a couple of months ago -- last I heard, he was working over at Sin City Comics."

Vega noted the information. "Any idea how he got into the box, sir?"

"I have no idea how, but _where_ is obvious," the manager said. "He must've gotten into it at the con."

"Con?" Catherine said, trying to ignore an unwelcome flashback to PAFCon. _Oh, God, not more six-foot weasels..._

"VivaConVegas -- it's a mid-sized literary SF con, over at the Green Valley Ranch Hotel and Casino," the manager explained. "I didn't want to leave our merchandise in the dealer room overnight, so I picked up the box with Leonard, my day shift clerk, after it closed."

"And you didn't notice it was a little heavier than usual?"

The manager sniffed. "Have you ever moved a transport case full of comics, madam? Weight-wise, it's the equivalent of moving a smallish tree trunk. If anything, I thought the case seemed oddly light -- that's why I opened it." He stared down at his ex-employee. "I thought I'd be missing some comics, but this -- it's just too Alan Moore for words."

Vega just shook his head. "Sir, I need to take some more details, and the CSIs need to collect evidence," he said, guiding the manager back to the cash register. "Now, about this con..."

While David and his assistant lifted the vic out of the case and onto the stretcher, Greg leaned over. "Madam?" he murmured, his eyes sparkling.

Catherine sighed. "Keep it up, Greggo," she muttered. "Next time we get a decomp case, it's all yours."

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI**

The pissed-off blonde glared at Brass and Ray from across the interrogation room table. "Look, I didn't kill my brother, even though the rimjob deserved it," she said, arms folded tightly across her impressive chest.

"Yeah, I heard about what he did with your parents' estate," Brass said. "That must've really chapped your ass, getting cut out like that."

"Chapped my ass?" Agatha Watkins demanded. "Try 'ruined my life'."

"Huh." The Homicide captain skimmed through the brief Dispatch had given him. "Doesn't look like you're doing too badly," he said. "Says here you've got a job as a trainer at the LV Athletic Club, and an apartment in Green Valley. You can't be hurting that much."

The look she gave him was poisonous. "You have no idea how much I'm hurting, okay?" she snapped. "And your pervert goons hauling me in didn't help." She glared over her shoulder at the police officer standing next to the far wall. "Yeah, I saw you checking out my ass -- take a picture next time, it'll last longer."

"Hey, Agatha, over here," Brass ordered, snapping his fingers. "We have an eyewitness who placed you at the con this afternoon. Said you were arguing with your brother about money -- you want to fill us in on the details?"

She shrugged, and winced. "I was trying to talk Andy into splitting Mom and Dad's estate. I thought he might be in a better mood if he was surrounded by his suck-ups, but I was wrong. So I left."

"Where did you go afterwards?" Ray asked.

"Home," she snapped. "Look, I'm not being greedy about this, okay? Mom and Dad promised me that money because I was trying to make something of myself, as opposed to my brother who was perfectly happy to live in their basement and sponge off them for the rest of their lives. When they died, I was the one who made all the arrangements for their funeral -- flowers, mortuary, gravesites, the works. I was a damn good daughter, but because they trusted my asshole brother to do the right thing they didn't put me in the will, so he got all their money. And now he's blowing it on that stupid con and his dumbass comic book collection."

#

_"You don't deserve Mom and Dad's money," Andy sneered. "All you do is prance around at that haven for steroid cases all day, shaking your cans at them."_

_"Yeah? Well, it's better than spending my entire adult life working at a comic book store, you loser!" Agatha yelled back. She waved a hand around their parent's living room, now full of an impressive number of storage boxes, each one loaded neatly with bagged comic books. "God, if they had any idea how much money you've already blown on those stupid things they'd be rolling in their graves."_

_"They understood the importance of the comic in popular culture," Andy intoned. "Someday, my collection will be worth a great deal of money."_

_"Right, and I'm going to be America's Next Top Model."  
_

#

"Well, you can't pick your family," Brass said.

She snorted. "Thank you for your words of wisdom, Officer Friendly. Now, unless you have something a little more solid to hold me on other than Andy being a cheap bastard, I'm out of here. I've got a funeral to arrange. Again."

Brass glanced at the policeman standing against the wall, and nodded. Agatha stood up stiffly and tromped out of the room, cop in tow.

The captain turned to Ray. "Get the feeling she's not a happy gym bunny?"

"You could say that," the CSI said, considering. "She has motive, and she's certainly angry. Plus she's a trainer, so she might have had enough upper body strength to overwhelm her brother and inject him with something. And in her line of work, it's not unreasonable to think that she's handled steroids or some other performance-enhancing drug in IV form." He frowned. "Did you think she was moving rather oddly?"

"Like she strained something? Yeah, I noticed that, too," Brass said. "I don't think we're going to rule out Miss Watkins as a suspect just yet."

"That _would_ be...illogical," Ray agreed, trying out his best Vulcan eyebrow arch.

Brass dropped his head into his hands. "A Trekkie," he groaned. "You _had_ to be a Trekkie."

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI**

Pulling on a surgical scrub top, Nick entered the Pathology lab. "Hey, Doc," he said, "you started working on my vic yet?"

"Yup," Al Robbins said, waving a bloody scalpel. "Want to take a look?"

"Always." The CSI walked over to the autopsy table and its current occupant. "Yeah, that's my DB."

"The dead fanboy? Cool." Robbins peeled back the top of the Y-incision, exposing the dead man's heart and lungs. "Already sent samples off to Tox and epithelials from the injection site to DNA."

"Got the COD yet? Ray thought it might've been a heart attack."

The coroner shook his head. "While cardiac arrest definitely played a role, it wasn't the main reason for Mr. Watkins moving on to the final frontier. I'm waiting for the tox results, but judging from this I'm guessing he died from anaphylactic shock." Robbins gently squeezed an upper lobe of one opened lung, and foam gushed out. "You can see the edema in the bronchial mucosa, and his veins are slack and dilated."

Nick studied the foamy tissue. "You think he was poisoned?"

"Well, bees don't usually put bandages over their stings, so someone injected him with something. The allergen could have been swallowed, of course, but I'm not seeing any angioedema in the neck or throat. No, I think someone nailed our friend here with something that caused his body to release a lethal dose of histamine."

"Any ideas on what?"

The coroner shook his head. "Nothing based on the initial physical findings. Henry should have the tox results pretty soon -- you can check with him."

Nick was already yanking off the scrub top. "Thanks, Doc."

Robbins acknowledged him with another wave of the scalpel.

Once he was clear of the faint but ever-present Pathology smell of formaldehyde and dead meat, the Texan's stomach rumbled. He detoured into the break room, heading for the small staff refrigerator and a Red Delicious he'd stored there yesterday. Catherine was already at the break room table, sipping coffee and reading over a report.

"Hey, boss lady," Nick said. "Something wrong with your office?"

"Yeah -- a stack of case reviews about two feet high blocking my desk," Catherine said, frowning at the report. "This is turning out to be a very weird weekend -- is it a full moon or something?"

"Not until next week," he said, grabbing a seat. "But I know what you mean. You should've seen where I picked up my first DB this evening."

"Bet I can beat it."

"Bet you can't."

"Oh yeah? Dead body, stuffed in a trunk full of shredded comics, in a comic book store," she offered. "We also found a ziploc bag with what looked like breadcrumbs and an empty bottle of water in the trunk -- I've got Hodges analyzing them now."

He nodded. "Weird, but not quite weird enough. Dead body, single track mark, in the middle of a dealer's room at a sci fi con. We're talking aliens _everywhere_. And Doc says COD was anaphylactic shock." He grinned. "Maybe my vic was allergic to fairies."

"Maybe," she said slowly. "A sci fi con. You mean VivaConVegas?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"My vic may have gotten locked into his trunk there," she said. "Now that _is_ weird."

Nick shrugged. "You said it yourself -- it's a weird weekend. If there is a connection, the lab rats'll find it. Speaking of that," he tossed his apple in the air, "I gotta see a man about a tox report."

"Go get 'em, tiger." She was already back in her own papers. "Oh, since you're heading in that direction, could you swing by Trace and see if my results are ready?"

"Dodging Hodges?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

She had a point. Nick took a big bite of his apple as he left the break room, flashing on some interesting rumors he'd heard. Supposedly there was one person who wasn't dodging David Hodges, Trace expert and the crime lab's biggest pain in the ass now that Ecklie was undersheriff. _I don't see how that could work, though. I mean, Wendy's a babe and he's a know-it-all geek. Then again, it didn't stop Grissom and Sara--_

_"Kawaii!"_

Nick yelped, dropping the apple. He spun around in time to see Greg leaning against the locker room door, a smug grin on the younger CSI's face.

"You sonofabitch," Nick yelled. "I could've choked on that."

"Don't worry -- I know the Heimlich," Greg said, dropping the falsetto. "Heard about your little encounter from Ray. Gotta watch out for those catgirls -- they have claws and they know how to use 'em." He hooked his fingers and raked at the air, hissing.

"Oh, really?" Nick said, his fists clenching. "C'mere, Garfield."

"No -- NOT THE HAIR!"

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI**

"Hi."

Catherine looked up from her cup of coffee. "Hey, good lookin'."

Brass smiled. "You took the words right out of my mouth," He went to the coffeemaker and grabbed a cup, then paused. "Usual brew or Greg's?"

"Greg's. He's trying to get back into my good books."

"Ah." Brass poured a cup of the expensive Blue Hawaiian coffee favored by the bouncy CSI and took it to the break room table. "Is it working?"

"Depends on how soon we get another case involving manjuice." She rubbed her eyes and yawned. "We just finished processing this weird 419 on Tropicana -- DB in a trunk of comic books."

Brass took a sip of his coffee and grunted. "Looks like we're running on the same side of the geek tracks tonight," he said. "Ray, Nick and I picked up a DB at a local sci-fi convention. Dropped dead in the middle of a crowd, single track mark on one elbow, nothing else. Robbins has him now down in Pathology."

"Lucky me. He probably won't get to my vic until end of shift."

Brass surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder, then dropped his voice. "Speaking of that, did you get Lindsey on the bus?"

"Yeah. Of course, she bitched about the trip all the way to school, and she's probably doing the same thing right now." Catherine shrugged. "It's good for her. She needs to get out of Vegas occasionally."

"Poor kid. She's going to be bored out of her gourd."

The CSI shook her head in mock disapproval. "And you have a degree in history," she tsked. "Pueblo Grande de Nevada is the oldest city in the state, Jim. The Anasazi were living there before Europe even knew North America existed. It's am amazing archaeological site."

"Yes, I know, and I would find something like that fascinating. To a class of high school students, however, it's a just bunch of old ruins on a boring stretch of river," he countered.

She cocked an eyebrow. "It also gets her out of the house for the weekend, so why are you complaining?"

"Not complaining, just observing." His expression remained businesslike, but his eyes twinkled. "I've got my bag in my car. Can I follow you home after shift, little girl?"

"I think that can be arranged," she said, with a smile. "Just keep your fingers crossed that neither of us have to pull a double."

Brass looked at the ceiling. "Are you there, God?" he said wistfully. "It's me, Jim. Help a cop out here, please?"


	3. Chapter 3

Entry #2 in the "A Year in the Life" series. When an obnoxious organizer drops dead at a science fiction convention, the CSIs find themselves faced with an unusual array of suspects and a genetic mystery. And yes, Brasscat fans, here comes the reason why this story is rated M. As for disclaimers, you know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, Grissom's office would now be a tiki bar.

* * *

Blood Ties  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

Dr. Robbins finished sinking the last stitch in the Y incision as Catherine walked into the autopsy room. "Hi, Doc," she said. "I'm trying to get out of here on time -- please tell me that's my vic."

"It is, indeed," the coroner said, putting the needle holder down. "Pretty straightforward COD on this one." He picked up a clear jar that contained a smallish mass, liberally streaked with a golden beige substance. "His mother must've skipped the lecture about taking small bites and chewing your food."

Catherine peered at the mass, mentally comparing it to the results she'd just gotten from Trace. "Let me guess -- that's part of a peanut butter sandwich."

"Sans jelly, which might have helped ease it down," Robbins agreed. "Unfortunately, it got stuck on the vic's epiglottis, and the rather large bolus of peanut butter formed a pretty effective seal over his airway. Since he was locked in a box full of comic books, he couldn't exactly ask someone for the Heimlich maneuver. There's evidence of laryngospasm, which would've jammed it in place even tighter. He was unconscious within a minute, dead within three."

The CSI shook her head. "Death by Jif. That's a hell of a way to go."

"Well, don't forget the heaping helping of stupidity," Robbins said, handing over the autopsy report. "Personally, I plan on putting this guy up for a Darwin Award."

"Whatever floats your boat, Doc," she said, grabbing the report and heading towards the door. "Me, I'm filing this, then I'm blowing this popcorn stand for the day."

The coroner chuckled. "What's the rush, Cath? Hot date?"

A sudden, vivid image of Jim naked and waiting for her in bed flashed through her mind. "Oh, you might say that," she said, smiling.

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI  
**

Nick rubbed his eyes and checked the clock. 7:45 AM. There was just enough time to make the rounds of the various labs before clocking out and grabbing some much-needed breakfast. He'd hoped to talk Catherine into coming along, but the supervisor ran out the door with a grin on her face that said she had something hot waiting for her. _Which is just dandy with me -- Catherine's always in a better mood when she's getting it on a regular basis._

First stop was the Toxicology lab, where Henry was studying a readout on the GC/MS. "Hey, hoss," Nick said. "Got my results back on the convention DB?"

"Just came in," Henry said, grabbing the report from the printer. "Tox screen came back negative. Drug screen showed therapeutic levels of ibuprofen, nothing that would've killed him."

"Huh." The CSI studied the results. "So he's got an injection mark, but no sign of what was injected."

"Yeah, I know -- weird." The Toxicology technician shrugged. "Wendy's running an IG assay on her samples -- maybe she'll have better luck."

"Maybe. Thanks anyway, man."

As Nick walked into the DNA lab, Wendy Simms was -- unsurprisingly -- in mid-argument with David Hodges. He arrived just in time to hear her snap, "God, you are so full of yourself," at the lanky Trace tech. "I'm amazed you can get your head through the front door."

Hodges smirked at the brunette. "I could make a corresponding comment," he said, glancing at her chest, "but you'd probably go straight to Catherine and hit me with a sexual harassment complaint, so I won't."

The Texan rolled his eyes at the mating dance. One of these days, he was going to walk in there and find them making out on top of the lab table. "If you could stop the flirting for a second, guys?" he said. "Wendy, did you finish that IG assay on the blood sample from Andy Watkins?"

With a final glare at Hodges, she grabbed a printout and shoved it at Nick. "No reaction to any of the main allergens," she said. "But he did have a major histamine release. It got me thinking about this case Greg told me about, where some drug lord's daughter overdosed and wound up getting a fast and dirty transfusion from her dealers."

"Yeah, I remember that one," Nick said. "It was the mismatched blood that killed her."

"Exactly. We may be looking at something similar here. I'm running the DNA right now -- if I find a second donor, you'll know."

The CSI grinned in appreciation. "You, lady, are a genius."

Behind them, Hodges folded his arms and snorted. Before the argument could restart, Mandy poked her head in the lab. "There you are, dude," she said to Nick. "I just finished processing your DB's ten card, and it matches two partials on a trunk and a water bottle in another case. Guess which one?"

"No -- the comic book store DB?"

"Yep. According to the evidence, your Mr. Watkins locked Mr. Fuller in that case and gave him a bottle of water to suck on. How's that for cosmic justice?"

"Oh, man," he said, shaking his head. "Catherine's gonna love this one. You're a peach, Mandy." Leaning in, Nick kissed her cheek in passing, then headed to his office. The fingerprint tech pressed her hand to her cheek and blushed.

"If you giggle, I'm going to vomit," Hodges announced.

Wendy glared at him. "Look, monkey boy..."

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI  
**

"I told you there was going to be a connection," Catherine crowed. "It's just that kind of weekend. Yeah, leave the report on my desk." She paused, listening. "No, I'm not coming back in -- it can wait until tonight." Another pause. "I don't care what Grissom would've done -- I'm not Grissom. Get some sleep, Nick -- you're starting to sound like Sara."

She clicked the phone shut. "Guess what? According to Mandy, your vic from the sci-fi con locked my vic from the comic book store B&E in that trunk with the comic books," she said.

"Great," Brass muttered. "Makes perfect sense. So on top of a hotel full of geeks, freaks and weirdos dressed up like Mr. Spock, we've got one vic with a track mark, no apparent cause of death and God knows how many people who hated his guts, and another vic who was stuffed into a trunk full of comic books by the first vic before he dropped dead." He stared at the ceiling, shaking his head. "Don't take this the wrong way, Cath, but I wish Grissom was here. He'd eat this stuff up."

"I know. I remember how he reacted to that furry convention, " Catherine admitted, reaching across his chest to toss her phone on the night stand. "Ran around the place like a kid in a candy store. I expected to turn around at some point and see him trying on a llama suit."

Brass chuckled. "Gil isn't the llama type. He's more of a badger."

"A badger?"

"Yeah. Big, smart, salt and pepper fur, digs a lot, and he's got that solemn thing going on. Plus I think he'd like the claws -- make it easier to pick up bugs."

"Yup -- he's definitely the Bug Lord." She stuck her index fingers behind her head, wiggling them. "Gotta have antennae to catch his attention."

"Huh. Maybe we should've given Sara a set of deely boppers as a going away present." He turned onto his side, running his hand down her hip. She stretched, enjoying the sensation of his fingertips brushing her skin. "Now you, you're definitely an Irish setter."

"Excuse me?" she laughed. "You calling me a dog, Brass?"

"Hey, lady, that's a compliment," he said in mock offense. "Irish setters are beautiful -- gorgeous auburn coat, big eyes, long slender body. Damn good hunters, too, and loyal as hell. My uncle Frank had one when I was a kid -- she always used to jump on me and lick my face like a popsicle whenever we went over there."

She took that as a hint. Snuggling closer, she ran her tongue along his jaw, licking up to his mouth. "Like that?"

He considered her out of the corner of his eye. "Well, there was a lot more drool with Sadie," he said thoughtfully. "But your breath definitely smells better."

"Mmph." Hiding her grin, she let the tip of her tongue trail down the skin of his neck, to the hollow between the heavy muscles of his upper shoulder and the collar bone. Pressing her lips there, she sucked gently, letting her tongue trace swirls on the now-damp skin. He sighed, turning his head farther to the side, offering his neck to the assault.

By now, she knew what he liked. She nuzzled the sensitive hollow, using her tongue to tease the nerve endings under his skin. When he moaned, she moved down to his collarbone, following it to the meat of his shoulder. Selecting a spot that wouldn't interfere with his snowflake tattoo, she opened her mouth and set her teeth in his skin, first biting gently, and then with more pressure.

His breathing changed, becoming rougher. She pulled back to check his reaction, then returned her mouth to his shoulder and licked the bite mark. Slowly, sensually, she set her teeth and bit him again.

"Christ," he growled, wincing and smiling at the same time. "I love that."

"I know," she murmured. His chest hair prickled against her lips as she worked her way down, stopping briefly to kiss the bullet scar on his right pec. She ran her tongue across the tattooed date, as if she could lick the old pain away, and continued moving down, interspersing kisses with bites.

Reaching his groin, she moved her head from side to side, gently trailing strands of her hair over her favorite penis in the whole world. This was rewarded with a growly sigh of pleasure from Brass. No more biting now; she dipped her head lower, gently licking along the sensitive underseam, then taking the semi-erect shaft in her mouth and stroking it with her lips and tongue. Going down on Jim when he was still getting hard was a sensory experience; she adored the combination of silky skin over the rapidly swelling shaft, the sound of his breathing as it became more ragged, and the sharp scent of clean male musk. Pointing her tongue, she found the tiny opening in the head and licked it, tasting salt.

"Mmmmm."

Most of all, she loved to make him moan. Time to up the tempo. She slid her left hand under the furred heaviness of his balls, cradling them. He was fully hard, now, and she couldn't deep-throat him, much as she would've liked to. Instead, she wrapped her right hand around the base of his shaft, then took the head into her mouth and sucked it gently, swirling it with her tongue. She settled down to a gentle bobbing rhythm that brought her mouth down to her hand, allowing her to swallow as much of him as possible.

His hands ran through her hair, spreading it out across his hips in red-gold waves. "God, you're beautiful when you do that," he whispered.

She grinned around her firm mouthful and continued to suck and stroke, maintaining the slow, delicious friction. When his breathing indicated he was about five seconds away from coming, she pulled him out of her mouth with a soft pop, giving the underside of the shaft one last kiss. "Not yet, big boy," she said. "I have plans for this."

"Yes, ma'am," he breathed.

She got up and straddled him, stroking his erection against her pubis while reaching in the night stand drawer for a condom. As she sat back, she paused, considering the foil square in her fingers. "You know, I really hate these," she said.

He got up on his elbows. "You're preaching to the choir, toots," he said. "I don't care how thin they are, it still feels like I'm screwing through a rubber sheet."

She looked at the condom again, then at him. His expression had changed, turning tender. _How the hell did I miss that for so many years?_

"I'm on the pill, and I had a full STD screening after Eddie," she said quietly. "I'm clean. And ever since then, I always used a condom."

The meaning of her words dawned on him, and he nodded. "I don't have anything," he said. "Departmental checkup every year, and I always used the damn things, too. I'm squeaky."

She licked her lips, still tasting him, and hesitated. "It means something, Jim, to skip this. It means we're not just fooling around."

"I know,"

Their history -- his extramarital affair, her rage against Eddie's constant infidelities -- seemed to swirl around them, forming an invisible threshold. No, not a threshold; a barrier. Breaking through that barrier would move them to a whole new level, a place that was wonderful and frightening at the same time.

_Do I want that?_

_I want that. Yes._

She realized she was holding her breath, and let it out. "So...we're not fooling around anymore."

He just smiled. "I never thought we were, honey," he said, his hands moving to her upper thighs, holding her against him. "I'm yours, Cath. For as long as you'll have me."

A tightness she hadn't even been aware of loosened in her chest. _Then you better get ready for forever, buster._

Ceremonially, she rose up and tossed the still-sealed condom back onto the nightstand, then settled down and back, letting out a breathy sigh as he slid inside her. Without the latex sheath, he was thick, hard, and perfect. She began a gentle rocking motion, her thighs working smoothly as she slid up and down.

Keeping his left hand on her hip, he moved the right closer to the point where their bodies met. His thumb stroked the top edge of her public hair, tracing downwards to where the sensitive flesh split. She gasped when he found the small nub there, rolling the pad of his thumb around it in slow circles. A flame of pure pleasure licked up through her body. "Oh," she moaned. "Please don't stop."

"I won't" he breathed back. "Never ever." His breath caught, and he bit his lower lip. "God, you feel so good."

She rocked faster. "Tell me."

Their eyes met, and blazed. "You're warm," he gasped. "And tight, and so wet. And you fit me. God, we fit."

"We fit," she echoed. "Oh, yeah."

"Yessss. Don't stop, Cath, don't stop--"

His hand tightened on her hip and he thrust upwards. She ground down, riding him hard, over and over until that sweet burning spot deep inside her exploded. She threw her head back and chanted his name as she came, echoed seconds later by his joyous bellow.

Coming down from her orgasm, she realized her thighs were trembling badly. He must have felt it, too, because his hands slid up to her waist, steadying her. Panting, she leaned forward until he slipped out of her. He guided her down, wrapping those wonderful furry arms around her until she was cuddled close, her head resting on his chest.

"You're a gem, lady," he said softly.

She sighed with pleasure. "You're not so bad yourself, sir."

"Heh. We aim to please."

She eased her leg across his, and felt a trickle of semen run down the inner curve of her thigh. "That's one nice thing about condoms," she mumbled. "At least they stop things from leaking."

His chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Hell with it. Let's leave some evidence on the sheets for a change."

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI  
**

The Denali cruised along in the cool evening air, following Vega's black departmental Crown Victoria. Andy Watkins's house was in Henderson; what with the new connection linking Watkins to the death of Vernon Fuller, the house now had to be processed for evidence.

"I bet it's full of comic books," Greg said dreamily, drumming his hands on the steering wheel. "As far as the eye can see."

Catherine shook her head. "Greg, I'm begging you -- get a girlfriend."

He chuckled. "Oh, I have no problem attracting the ladies, believe me," he said in his "I'm too sexy for this Denali" voice. "They think my little foibles are cute."

She snorted. "Trust me, Greggo -- no matter what she may tell you, no woman really likes a little foible."

The younger CSI shot her a surprised look as Vega's car pulled into a sleepy suburban street, stopping in front of a nondescript ranch home. Greg pulled up behind him. "Looks like a charming spot," the CSI quipped as they pulled their cases out of the SUV.

Catherine was about to quip back when she saw Vega's face go grim. "Front door's open," he said, pulling his sidearm. "Stay here."

Obediently, the CSIs waited on the walkway as Vega eased the door open and slipped inside. "I hate this part," Greg muttered.

"Me too." Catherine pulled out her phone, ready to speed-dial 911. After a couple of minutes, Vega's shouted "Clear" drifted out the front door.

They went inside. The ranch layout included a short foyer that opened onto the main living room; as Greg had predicted, the room was lined with plastic storage bins almost to the ceiling. Catherine could see row after row of comic books neatly arranged in each bin.

In front of them was a short blonde with her arms folded defensively across her chest. "Who the hell are you people?" she snarled, glaring at Catherine and Greg. "Get out of my house!"

The detective pulled out a folded legal document. "We're Las Vegas PD, ma'am -- we have a warrant to search the premises," he said. "And according to Clark County property records, this house belonged to Andrew Watkins."

"Yeah, that's my brother," she said, snatching the warrant and reading it. "I'm his sister Agatha. And now he's dead, so as his only surviving relative the house belongs to me!"

Vega shrugged. "Title of ownership is something that a probate court will have to decide, ma'am. In the meantime, we need to search the house."

"For what?"

"Evidence," Catherine said, stepping forward. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step outside."

A new and even more shrill outburst of abuse poured from the blonde's mouth, echoing off the plastic stacks. Vega finally had to threaten her with an obstruction of justice charge before she flounced outside, yelling that she was going to call her lawyer.

Greg wiggled his index finger in his ear. "Small enclosed space," he commented, wincing.

"Really big lungs," Catherine replied. "You start in here -- I'll take the perimeter."


	4. Chapter 4

Entry #2 in the "A Year in the Life" series. When an obnoxious organizer drops dead at a science fiction convention, the CSIs find themselves faced with an unusual array of suspects and a genetic mystery. On the home front, Lindsey is on a weekend field trip, and Brass and Catherine take advantage of their unexpected freedom. You know the drill -- CSI isn't my sandbox. If it were, Greg would be throwing illegal raves in the AV lab.

* * *

Blood Ties  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Nick rapped on the Homicide captain's office doorway. "Hey, Jim," he said, holding up a report folder. "I got something on the Watkins case."

Brass looked up from a pile of department paperwork and sighed. "Please tell me the sister killed him," he said. "I _really_ don't want to go back to that convention, especially if I have to take Ray."

"Sorry. It wasn't the sister," Nick said, handing over the folder. "I just pulled her bank records -- she lied to us about going home after her argument with Andy. During the estimated time of death, she was at the Le Rey Center for Aesthetics."

Brass opened the report, skimming it. "Sounds like a spa."

"Oh, those services are offered, too. But you have to wait until after your plastic surgery."

The captain's eyebrows shot up. "Plastic surgery?"

"Yup. Agatha had it done on her upper arms. It's called a brachioplasty -- it corrects a batwing deformity, which is the loose skin that hangs under your arm after you lose a lot of weight. It's also why she was moving so stiffly when the uniforms brought her in."

Brass shook his head. "So it wasn't a muscle strain. Damn. I really liked her for this, too."

"So did I. Girl's got a lot of hostility towards her brother -- I could buy her bumping him off out of pure pissiness," Nick said. "But she didn't. Of course, now I'm wondering why she lied about where she was yesterday afternoon."

Brass smiled humorlessly. "Why don't we ask her?"

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI  
**

"Cath?"

Catherine looked up from her examination of the back door. "What?"

"Come in here and take a look at something."

Putting her dusting brush in her case, she followed the junior CSI back into the house. In the living room, Greg pointed to the end of one storage bin stack. "There's a depression on the carpet there, same size as one of the storage bins. Think Agatha moved a stack?"

"Mm. It's possible." The supervisor got down on her hands and knees next to the spot, angling her head for a visual comparison of the compressed and uncompressed carpet fibers. "Doesn't look too deep -- how heavy are one of those bins?"

Greg went to a stack and slid the top bin off, grunting with the effort. "Uh, I'd say 25 pounds. All of the stacks contain four bins, so that's 100 pounds worth of pressure under each stack."

Catherine thought. "Could you move the rest of that stack?"

"Anything for you, boss." He restacked the bins in the middle of the room. The depression in the now-vacated space was much deeper than the one on the end.

She sat back on her heels. "Judging from the wear patterns, this carpet is at least ten years old -- the underlay's lost a lot of resilience, and there's no sign of disturbance from a vacuum," she said. "I think there was only one storage bin here -- even allowing for decompression, the depression would've been deeper if there had been a stack."

Greg squatted down next to her. "Most comic collectors I know keep their really prized items separate from the rest of the collection," he said, "just in case something bad happens to it. Like, oh, your mom cleaning your room when you're at camp and tossing out your entire _Watchmen_ run. Not that I'm bitter or anything."

"Of course not," she said dryly. "So, whatever was in this storage bin, it might have been the cream of Watkins' collection. In that case, where is it?"

Before Greg could reply, her phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the caller id -- _Brass_.

"Hey h--Jim," she said, stumbling over the first consonant. _For God's sake, Cath, do not call Jim "honey" in front of Greg. _"Yeah, we're at the Watkins place -- guess who was here? Yeah, she's outside with Vega now." She listened. "Really? Huh. Something like that would run, what, five grand? That's what I thought, too. Okay, bye."

She closed the phone. "Apparently Agatha's been lying about a couple of things. She had plastic surgery on her upper arms yesterday."

Greg made a face. "Why?"

"Apparently she used to be a fairly big girl, then she had a gastric bypass. Thing is, when you lose a lot of weight, the extra skin doesn't just disappear. The only way to get rid of it is plastic surgery. And she just dropped five Ks on an arm job yesterday."

The younger CSI's eyes lit up. "So where did the money come from?"

After a beat, they both looked the empty space at the end of the stacks.

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI  
**

"I bought those comics in good faith," the manager of Cosmic Comics said stiffly. "And I paid good money for them, too."

"I'm sure you did," Catherine said. "About five thousand dollars, I'm guessing."

He gave her a prickly look, and sniffed. "I should've known something was wrong," he said. "Women simply don't appreciate the artistry and cultural impact of comic books."

Catherine repressed an urge to grab a nearby bust of Batman and clock him with it. "Okay, let's go over the timeline," she said. "When did Agatha come in here to sell the comics?"

"Thursday afternoon -- I can give you an exact time." He hit the button on the cash register, and the till popped open. Lifting out the cash drawer, he fished out a creased receipt. "Yes, I paid her $4,890 for the comic books at 3:48 PM." The facade of the businessman slipped, revealing the fervor of the true collector. "She pretty much cleaned out my cash reserves, but it was so worth it."

"What happened next?"

"Andy stormed in here just around closing, saying that I'd stolen his comics and he wanted them back. I had no idea they were related."

"So you knew Andy Watkins?" Greg asked.

"Of course -- he's one of my best customers. Or was, anyway. I showed him the receipt and told him what happened. Then I offered to sell him the books back, at a modest markup."

Catherine snorted. "Even though you knew they were stolen property. I do believe that's a felony."

A panicked look crossed the manager's face. "What? No, I...well...look, Andy just sucked up comics like a whale straining plankton, okay?" he whined. "He wasn't a collector, he was a hoarder. A glutton like that didn't deserve to have a mint copy of Teen Titans #1."

_Somehow, the six foot weasels don't seem so bad now._ "Isn't that an animated kid's show?" she said out loud.

The manager stared at her in horrified disbelief. "You see what I mean?" he said to Greg, gesturing towards the CSI supervisor. "They don't _understand_."

"Nuh-uh, don't get me involved," Greg said, waving both hands.

Catherine shot her younger colleague a disgusted look. "What did Andy do after you told him he had to buy the books back?" she asked the manager.

"He started monologuing. Told me I'd live to rue the day, he would have his vengeance, etcetera. Then he stomped out. I figured he was going to go find his sister and tear her a new one." The manager sagged against the counter. "Am…am I in trouble?"

Catherine's lips quirked. "What do you think, Captain Marvel?"

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI  
**

Brass closed his phone and walked into the interrogation room, where Vega was now waiting with Agatha Watkins.

"Hi, Agatha," he said, taking a seat. "Amazing, how our paths keep crossing. Hey, how are your arms? Must hurt like hell after the surgery."

Agatha glared at him. "What do you want?"

Brass shrugged. "I want to know how you paid for your surgery," he said, giving her a thin smile. "Because we checked your bank records -- wouldn't you know it, you didn't have enough cash for a five thousand dollar procedure, and you've got a credit limit of three grand. I called your surgeon -- had to pull him out of the Acid Drop, which he wasn't too happy about, but he definitely remembered you. Not a lot of people pay for his procedures in small bills."

She stared at the far wall, emotion twisting her face. "Do you know what ptosis is, Captain?"

"Not a clue."

"It means 'drooping.' It's what happens when you lose 150 pounds in a year. You droop, all over. Your arms, your breasts, your stomach, your ass -- everything sags." She looked at him, her eyes glassy with angry tears. "It didn't matter how much weight I could lift or how far I could run -- not a lot of people want to hire a personal trainer with flapping arms and boobs that hang to her knees. So I needed plastic surgery if I wanted to keep my job."

"Which you paid for by stealing comic books from your brother's house," Vega said.

She shook her head violently. "I paid for most of the surgery myself. It was just this last part, on my arms -- it would've taken me months to save up enough money, and I was tired of having to live cheap," she said. "Andy used money from our parents' estate to buy those books. They were just as much mine as his. So yeah, I took them, and I sold them, and I paid Dr. Baird for my brachioplasty."

"But Andy found out about it, didn't he?" Brass said softly. "And that's why you two were arguing in the green room at the con."

#

_"I know you took my books," Andy spat. "Vernon saw them at Cosmic Comics this morning when he was picking up their stuff for the con. I want the money you got for them right now, or I'm going to the police and having them arrest you for theft."_

_"Try it, you arrogant sonofabitch," Agatha spat back. "And I'll hit you with a lawsuit so fast it'll make your head spin. You want your precious funny books back so bad, go back there and buy them. God knows you've got the money."_

_Unnoticed by either of them, Bev Helman quietly slipped out the door.  
_

#

Agatha stared at him, then laughed bitterly. "The green room," she said. "Bev ratted me out, didn't she?"

"She told us you were arguing with Andy, yeah." Brass said.

The blonde shook her head. "Stupid vampire bitch."

Vega frowned. "Being a little harsh on the lady, aren't you?"

She glared at the detective. "It's not an insult, it's a job description. She's a phlebotomist at Desert Palms Hospital. That's why she runs the blood drive at the con." She tried to cross her arms, and winced. "Stupid bitch used to be friends with me, then she got jealous when I lost weight. Now she thinks I'm mundane trash just because I want to look good. Screw her."

The Homicide captain gave the woman a cold look. "Let me explain a couple of things to you, Agatha," he said. "When you stole your brother's comic books, he tried to get them back from the store, but the manager wouldn't return them. So he came up with another way to get them back."

#

_"Look, it's all set up," Andy said. "You get in the box now, and wait in there until the dealer's room closes. Sheldon's so paranoid, there's no way he'll want to leave his stuff here overnight. Then you wait until the store closes, pop the locks, get out and get my stuff."_

_Vernon stared at the half-empty trunk of comic books behind the Cosmic Comics table. "I dunno, Andy—"_

_"Look, you wanna be guest liaison next year?" the concom head said ominously. "If you do, then you help me out here."_

_The smaller man shifted from foot to foot. "But it's illegal," he whined._

_"Screw illegal. You know the store layout. All you have to do is get in there, find my comics and get them out. You do that, you'll be personally escorting Neil Gaiman around for the entire weekend next year."_

_"O-okay." Swallowing hard, Vernon climbed into the box, shifting until he found a comfortable position. "Hey!"_

_"What?"_

_"What if I get hungry? Or thirsty? I'm gonna have to be in this thing for at least six hours._

_Andy grabbed his battered messenger bag and rifled through it. "Here's a peanut butter sandwich and some water," he said, tossing the bagged sandwich and the bottle in the box. "If you have to pee, you're on your own."_

_Moving quickly, the concom head started layering comics around and over the man, covering him entirely. To the casual observer, it looked like the trunk only held comic books. Grinning tightly, Andy closed the lid._

_Grabbing his bag, he hurried to the dealer's room doors, opening one. "Okay, the fire marshal should be happy with this arrangement – you can let the dealers back in," he said to the teenager wearing a "And Then Buffy Staked Edward. The End" t-shirt._

_The door guard sighed and turned to the milling group of irritated-looking dealers and fans waiting for the all-clear. "Okay, folks, the dealer's room is officially open," he announced. "Sorry for the delay, happy shopping."  
_

#

"Unfortunately, Vernon Fuller choked on his sandwich and died in that box," Brass concluded. "He didn't know that Andy was already dead by that point."

Agatha flinched in shock. "Y-you can't pin that on me," she choked. "That wasn't my fault."

"Not directly, no, which is why we can't arrest you for manslaughter," the Homicide captain said, looking regretful. "We can, however, arrest you for breaking and entering, grand theft and possession of stolen property. Hope you like your new arms – they're going to look great in an orange jumpsuit."

**CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI  
**

Ray frowned at a report as he headed towards the lab section. "You look unhappy," said a voice behind him.

He turned and blinked at Catherine. "No, just confused. Wendy sent me the blood workup on Andy Watkins. She found an additional DNA sample – same blood type as Andy's, but from an XX donor."

The CSI supervisor made a thoughtful moue. "That explains the track mark," she said. "But why would he need a transfusion?"

"Excellent question, which is why I called his doctor," Ray said. "As Andy is dead, doctor/patient confidentiality no longer applies -- tuns out he was diagnosed three months ago with microcytic anemia. While blood transfusions aren't considered a good treatment for anemia, they can provide short-term relief for the symptoms of fatigue associated with the disease."

"Okay," Catherine allowed. "But Watkins was Type O+, too, so getting a transfusion from another Type O+ shouldn't have been a problem."

"Under normal circumstances, you're correct, but that's not what's confusing me," Ray said.

By that point they were at the DNA lab; Wendy straightened up from a microscope, shaking her head. "I figured you'd show up once you read that report," she said to Ray. "This is one very weird case."

"Trust me, this whole weekend's been weird," Catherine said. "What do you have?"

"A genetic impossibility," the DNA tech said, nodding at the paper in Ray's hand. "We swabbed Agatha Watkins when Brass brought her in so that we could compare her DNA to any epithelials we found around the injection site. We didn't find any, but I compared her sample to the sample we took from her brother just to confirm a blood relationship. They have six shared alleles, so they really are brother and sister."

"Why is that weird?"

"Because Andy has Type O blood, and Agatha has Type AB blood. Now, that's possible if one of their parents was Type A with a recessive O allele and the other was Type B with a recessive O. However, I'm OCD and their parents were killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver two years ago, which means we have their blood types on file, so I cross-referenced them. Roger Watkins was Type O, and Patrice was Type AB. Not only is it impossible for Andy and Agatha to be full brother and sister, they can't be their parents' biological children."

Catherine's eyes went distant for a moment. "Because someone with Type O blood has to have two parents with an O allele, which a Type AB parent wouldn't have, and someone with Type AB blood has to have one parent with an A allele and one parent with a B allele," she said, trying to remember a long-distant biology lesson.

A memory nagged at Ray. "So Roger could be Andy's father but not Agatha's, and Patrice could be Agatha's mother but not Andy's."

"Exactly. But not only are Andy and Agatha full siblings, they're fraternal twins." The DNA tech shook her head. "I don't understand this at all."

The nagging increased. "Fraternal twins from different fathers have happened before, but the conflict with Patrice and Andy's blood types rule that possibility out in this case."

"I know," Wendy said. "I don't know how to explain it. Then again, considering what the brother liked to do on the weekends, maybe he's just an alien."

Alien -- strange -- _foreign_. The memory fell into place, and Ray's eyes went wide. "Of _course_," he breathed.

Catherine frowned. "What?"

"Um--" He glanced around the lab, his gaze falling on a freshly cleaned pane of glass. "It's easier if I show you with a Punnett square," he said, grabbing a whiteboard pen. "Wendy, do you mind?"

"Are you kidding me?" the DNA tech said. "I want to see this, too."

With quick strokes, Ray sketched out a square with four boxes on the glass. "Our blood type is based on our parents' chromosomal pairs for blood antibodies, and how they combine during our conception," he explained. "If you have a parent with AB blood, they can pass along a chromosome for either the A or B antibody to their child." He drew an A on top of one column and a B on top of the other. "If the other parent has O blood, it means --"

"--they don't have the chromosome for either A or B antibodies," Wendy interjected. "Because if they had either chromosome, they wouldn't be Type O, since O is always recessive to A or B."

Ray smiled. "Exactly. So Andy's mom is AB, and Andy's dad is O," he sketched an O next to each row of the square. "Based on this Punnett square, Catherine, what kind of blood types could their children have?"

The supervisor combined the letters at the head of each row and column, mentally filling in the squares. "AO, BO, AO, BO. A 50% chance of a kid with Type A blood and a 50% chance of a kid with Type B blood, both of them with a recessive O chromosome."

Ray drew in the blood types. "So tell me this -- if Agatha is AB, as her blood test proves, and Andy is O, how can they be the biological children of their parents?"

Catherine frowned. "They can't, so they've got to be adopted. But the DNA test showed 6 shared alleles, so they're definitely full brother and sister."

"Indeed they are. _And_ they are also their parents' biological children."

Both women gave him an exasperated look. "Are you going to explain how?" Catherine asked.

The former pathologist's eyes were alight. "It's quite simple. Both Andy Watkins and his father were mutants."


	5. Chapter 5

Entry #2 in the "A Year in the Life" series. When an obnoxious organizer drops dead at a science fiction convention, the CSIs find themselves faced with an unusual array of suspects and a genetic mystery. On the home front, Lindsey is on a weekend field trip, and Brass and Catherine take advantage of their unexpected freedom. You know the drill -- CSI isn't my sandbox. If it were, Homicide captains would be forbidden from wearing ties. _Ever._ And at least one collar button would have to remain undone at all times. Mwahahahaha...

* * *

Blood Ties  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

Brass rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore his growing headache. "I know the vic died at a sci-fi convention, Ray," he said, "but don't you think you're going a little too far with this whole mutant thing?"

The tall man's lips quirked. "Trust me, Jim. I'm a doctor."

The captain rolled his eyes. "God, you _are_ worse than Grissom," he muttered.

"I'll take that as a compliment." With that, Ray opened the door to the interview room. A police officer stood at the back, and Bev Helman sat at the table, wearing a pair of blue scrubs.

She looked up as the two men entered. "Oh. It's you two," she said, giving them a confused smile. "I was surprised when the policeman showed up at the hospital and asked me to come down here. Did you find out who killed Andy?"

"I believe so." Ray took a seat, giving her a long, steady look across the table. "Miss Helman, you work as a phlebotomist for Desert Palms Hospital when you're not running convention green rooms, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you helped to organize the blood drive at the con this weekend?"

She nodded. "I do it every year. It's a tradition at a lot of cons -- Robert Heinlein started it in the 60's."

"Big of him," Brass quipped.

Ray passed the woman a copy of the DNA lab report. "Miss Helman, did you know that Andy was a carrier of the Bombay phenotype?"

"The what?"

"A rare blood mutation. We believe he inherited it from his father," the CSI explained. "Essentially, a gene that controls expression of the A or B antibodies doesn't work properly in people with this kind of mutation. As a result, even though Andy was genetically a Type B, the malfunctioning gene meant that his body didn't produce B antibodies. So any standard blood test, which only tests for the presence of antibodies, would class him as Type O."

Bev frowned, scanning the report. "I've never heard of this, and I know about most blood disorders. What does this have to do with Andy?"

Ray steepled his hands. "According to his medical records, Andy suffered from anemia," he said, watching her expression. The confirmation came when a flicker of fear went through her eyes. "As I'm sure you know, anemia leaves you feeling tired and washed out, and Andy was the head of the concom -- a very busy and stressful position, especially over the weekend of the con. I'm guessing he needed some kind of pick-me-up. And while I know caffeine is the drug of preference for most SF fans, a person with anemia is much better off with a blood transfusion."

The phlebotomist swallowed, then pushed the paper back across the table. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We found an injection mark on Andy's arm," Ray said softly. "I'm guessing he asked you to give him that transfusion."

#

_Andy and Bev sat in the Desert Palms Hospital's blood donation bus. Even with the overhead fluorescents turned off, the concom head looked tired and drained. "Come on, Bev. I just need a pint."_

_The phlebotomist shook her head. "They haven't been tested yet--"_

_"So give me your donation. We're the same blood type, and I know you don't have anything." Before she could say anything he plunged on, "I already have the hotel trying to charge me for extra suites, and our GOH is being a royal pain in the ass. I need to stay sharp. Help me out here."_

_She bit her lip, then nodded. Standing up, she reached into the mobile blood bank's refrigeration unit and pulled out a plastic bag filled with dark scarlet.  
_

#

"You transfused him with a pint of your own blood," Ray concluded, "under the reasonable assumption that it matched his own type. What neither of you knew is that a Bombay phenotype carrier can only receive his or her own blood, or blood donated by another carrier. Any other blood type, even O, would cause a transfusion reaction and anaphylactic shock."

Bev shrank back in her chair. "Oh, no. Please no."

"We've already collected the sharps disposal box from the bus," Brass added, his voice gentle. "Normally, there should only be donation needles in it. We found one transfusion needle, and it had Andy's DNA on the outside and your blood on the inside. You gave him your blood donation -- that's what killed him."

She stared at the metal table. "H-he said he was tired," she whispered. "I was just trying to...oh, God. I'm so _sorry!"_

She burst into tears. Sighing, Brass glanced at the police officer and nodded. "Take her to Processing, please," he said quietly.

"Yes, sir." The officer came forward and gently helped the sobbing phlebotomist to her feet, escorting her out of the interrogation room. Brass and Ray followed, watching the pair make their way down the long, shadowed hallway of the police station.

"What's going to happen to her?" the CSI asked.

"She's got a clean record and it was an accident, so she'll probably be charged with manslaughter," Brass said. "Considering the circumstances, she'll get maybe five years, be out in three. Maybe even two if she gets a good lawyer, or the DA finds out what an asshole Watkins was."

"All for doing a favor," Ray said sadly. "It doesn't seem fair, somehow."

"Yeah, but this is why there are rules about donating blood," the Homicide captain said. "In a situation like this, the good of the many outweigh the good of the few, or the one."

His eyes went wide in horror, and he slapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, Jesus," he mumbled indistinctly. "Now you've got _me_ doing it."

**  
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI**

"Hey, Mom, I'm home!" echoed through the Willows house.

Catherine took a deep breath, resting her hand on Brass's one last time for moral support.

He squeezed her fingers. "It's going to be fine," he whispered.

"Says you," she whispered back. Louder, she said, "We're in the kitchen, honey."

"Oh, god, Mom, you would not _believe_ what Paulie Sanchez tried to do--" Lindsey Willows jogged into the dining area of the kitchen, stopping when she saw them at the kitchen table. "Oh. Hi, Jim."

Jim gave her a grin. "Hi, kiddo."

Catherine bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to smile. He'd tried so hard, really -- his usual suit and tie were back at his house, and in their place was an old cream short-sleeved polo shirt, his favorite brown cords, and a beat-up pair of loafers. The whole outfit screamed _I'm harmless. Just your mom's old buddy, nothing to worry about here._

He swallowed, and she was surprised to hear a clicking noise. _Dry throat?_ _My God, he's more nervous than I am. _"So, um, how was the field trip?" he continued.

Lindsey shrugged. "Basically boring until that moron Paulie tried to light a fart in his cabin and scorched his ass. Mr. Svenson had to take him to the hospital -- _man_, he was pissed." She detoured to the fridge and dug out a Diet Coke. "Anything interesting happen here?"

Catherine had a sudden and very unexpected flashback of Jim's mouth moving up her inner thigh, and choked a bit. Brass, undoubtedly remembering something similar, was staring at the ceiling. "Well, we solved a murder at a sci-fi convention," he said after clearing his throat.

"Oh. That's cool. But it's SF or speculative fiction, not sci-fi."

Catherine blinked in surprise. "I didn't think you liked that stuff."

"I don't, but my English teacher's a fan. Knowing him, he was probably _at_ that convention." Lindsey plopped down in the chair across from them, then planted the soda can on the table and folded her arms across her chest. "So, what'd I do?" she challenged.

"Uh...nothing?" Catherine said, surprised.

"Then why are you two sitting here waiting for me?"

_Showtime._ "Well, there's something I--" pausing, she amended it to, "--_we_ need to tell you. About us. Jim and me."

Lindsey scratched her chin. "Oh, that. You're hooking up. I know."

"You _know_?"

The teenager rolled her eyes. "Well, yeah. I mean, he's had dinner with us seven times in the last three weeks. And you keep looking at each other with this truly disgusting expression." This time, she crossed her eyes. "And he comes over here when I'm at school, right?"

Catherine felt her jaw drop. Next to her, Brass rubbed his mouth, his eyes crinkling in delight. "Now how'd you figure that out?" he asked. "Because I _know_ I never left anything behind."

Lindsey gave him an exasperated look. "No, but you do always leave the toilet seat up."

Catherine turned to stare at Brass, who had an astonished look on his face, then cracked up. "Oh, God. I never even thought about that," she admitted.

"And I'm supposed to be the detective," he said, shaking his head. "She's definitely your kid, Willows."

"You two are so busted," Lindsey scoffed. "Look, Mom, it's cool, okay? I mean, you've known each other for years, right? And Jim's a good guy -- he's not going to jerk you around like some of the guys you dated." She shrugged. "I guess what I'm saying is, I'm sixteen -- I'm not going to be scarred for life if he sleeps over."

"Lindsey!"

"Mom!" She mimicked her mother's tone perfectly. "Just don't mess each other up, okay? If you have problems, talk to each other -- don't start screaming or throwing things. _Or_ jumping into bed with other people. All right?"

Catherine knew she was thinking of the fights with Eddie, and shook her head. "We won't do that, I promise."

"Never," Brass vowed.

"Okay. Anyway, I've got to finish this stupid essay on the Anasazi by tomorrow, so I gotta hit it." She went to the doorway, then stopped and turned to Brass. "You're going to stay for dinner, right?"

"That was the plan," Brass said.

"Cool. And I don't have to call you Uncle Jim or anything lame, do I?"

He shook his head, chuckling. "Nah. Jim is fine."

"'Kay, Jim. Call me when dinner's ready, Mom." Grinning again, she left.

Weak with laughter and relief, Catherine leaned against Brass's shoulder. "I think we just got a teenager's blessing," she said.

"Thank God. Of course, that was the easy part," he said. "Now I gotta figure out how to tell Ellie."

She nudged him gently. "_We'll_ figure it out. So, want to help me cook dinner?"

He caught her hand and kissed it. "Lady, I'm at your service."

* * *

**A/N: Yes, there really is a Bombay phenotype -- go to Wikipedia and enter Hh_antigen_system for more information. I simplified the explanation for the purposes of this story, but the consequences of receiving a transfusion from a non-carrier are unfortunately accurate.**


End file.
